[Author’s Note: A side effect of the medication I take for rheumatoid arthritis is the palms of my hands discolor. Usually the shade is pale pink, but they do sometimes turn a vivid rose.
So I was thinking . . . .]

What If

skin, like hair, changed
with age, not to gray, perhaps,
but maybe so,
but also maybe mauve, or gold,
or blue, sky blue,
white to black,
black to white—
you see where I’m going with this.
All of us running around in rainbow hues—
who would know who to abuse?

[Footnote: I’m aware that the last “who” should be “whom”, but it doesn’t sound as good.]


the long white bones
the hollow stare
inside my skin
at home in there
but never safe
from slings
and arrows
wolves who
breathe on
sticks and

Preventive Care

If I
had paid attention,
looked every single day,
how could these lines appear?
How could my face have changed,
young to old, if I were watching
in the mirror,
every single day.

if I make sure to ask you
every single day
my name,
who am I to you,
maybe then you will not fail
to know me
every single day.


Who thought of this,
to draw and turn lines and circles
onto stone and then on paper
that all could comprehend?

You must remember when it came to you,
the power and the mystery—
thought transference
without trickery.

What am I thinking,
here in this book-infested den,
at my white Ikea desk,
in my squeaky chair,
sweet iced tea sweating,
new rain scent sifting through the screen,
words piling up behind my black gel pen?

What are you thinking?

Copies of my poetry chapbook, Songs in the Static, are $12, including postage. And if you order more than one, they are $10 each, including postage. E-mail me at the link up at the top of the righthand column.